The Baker Street Cafe
by Hannah HasSpareTime
Summary: A Sherlock Coffee Shop AU
1. A New Job for John Watson

John sat at a table in a quaint little coffee shop, bored out of his mind. Grabbing his cane, he stood up to leave, but changed his mind. He walked up to the man at the counter. "Are you hiring?" he asked.

"Sorry, no," sighed the man, whose name tag informed John he was named Mike.

"Oh, right then." John turned to leave the cafe. "Who would ever want to hire me?" he muttered under his breath.

"I hear their hiring over at Baker Street!" Mike called after him.

John stopped. "Baker Street?"

"Yeah," said Mike. "I know a guy who works there. Here's the address." Mike jotted it down on a piece of paper and held it out to John.

John took the paper. "I'll consider it," he said.

"One hot chocolate coming up," said Sherlock. He handed a receipt to the girl who liked Night Vale podcasts and had two dogs, not the most interesting customer today. "Molly!" he called.

"Yes, Sherlock?" She popped up beside him.

"We're backed up on orders. We've got nine coffees to make and a hot chocolate on top. I'll take the hot chocolate and four of the coffees. The other five are all the same, black, two sugars. That should be easy enough for you."

"Are you calling me- stupid?"

"What? No. It's just- get to work." Sherlock started the one of the machines up. As the coffee poured, he set to work putting in cream and milk in the appropriate cups.

"Natalie, Sharon, Madeline, and Anika, your orders are done."

He handed the girls their cups as Molly called for her four orders. "Philip, Sally, Irene, and James!"

Molly handed each one out with a smile. One of them, James, smiled back and said,"Hi."

"Hey," Molly replied sheepishly.

"So would you like to maybe-"

"Alexandra!" Sherlock called from behind Molly, and the girl came to pick up her hot chocolate at the counter.

James looked away and went to sit down. All nine patrons had been satisfied and were seated at tables and Sherlock was bored. "I'll be upstairs," he said to Molly.

John Watson walked into the weird little shop, followed by two other patrons who maneuvered past him and to the register.

The first of the two was a bit larger with brown, balding hair. In his hand was an black umbrella (John couldn't fathom why, nothing in the forecast suggested it would rain.) and he confidently approached the woman with long brown hair at the counter. "Oh hello, Myc," she said.

"Mycroft." The man had a voice that was cold and smooth, like ice.

The girl blushed slightly. "Right." She turned and yelled up the staircase behind her. "Sherlock! Your brother is here!"

A tall man with dark curly hair descended the steps. He wore black pants with a purple shirt, which seemed to be the basic uniform, except he wasn't wearing an black apron like the girl at the counter, but an odd tweed overcoat. John assumed this was Sherlock, and he was the manager.

Sherlock greeted his brother with a cold nod. "The usual I take it?"

"Yes but also another one, for my... associate," said Mycroft, indicating the man behind him.

"Ah yes," said Sherlock. "Good morning, Gavin."

"Greg. My name is Greg." The person behind Mycroft was definitely shorter than either of the brothers, and had gray hair that somehow didn't make him look old.

The men said nothing more and Sherlock turned around and began making the coffee.

John took in the shop. It was unique, with brown and white patterned walls with a yellow smiley face spray-painted on it. The tables and chairs were old-fashioned, Victorian-styled, except for a few in the back, which looked comfy and cushiony and were right next to the fireplace. On the mantle lay a skull.

He approached the counter. "Hi," he began. "My name is John Watson."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock inquired, not looking away from the coffee he was making.

"Afghanistan. How did you-"

"Molly! Can you give this coffee to George?"

"It's Greg!" came Greg's voice from a table towards the back of the shop.

"Molly, can I use your phone? I left mine upstairs." But Molly was already busy with a customer.

"Here," said John. "Use mine." He tossed the phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it and sent a text, then handed the phone back to Watson. "Thanks. You're hired, by the way."

"What?"

"You did come here for a job right?"

"You're hiring me, and you don't know the first thing about me."

"I know that you're late to a therapist's appointment."

John raised a hand and then put it down. "But other than that?"

Sherlock looked John up and down. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him-possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? {he exits and pops back in.} The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

Sherlock moved to another customer who had walked up to the second register. John stood there dumbfounded for a moment, then turned around and left.


	2. First Day

So yesterday I went and got a job. It's at this coffee shop on Baker Street. I walked into the shop and met a man called Sherlock Holmes. He was able to tell me very personal things about my life after a few short sentence exchanges. The only thing he got wrong was that he thought my sister, Harry, was my brother. He also said my limp was psychosomatic. I don't even know why he hired me.

Happy now, Ella?

John sat back and sighed. He only wrote this blog because his therapist told him to do so. With another sigh he shut the laptop and went to go put on his new uniform. He eyed the purple shirt and black pants with obvious disdain. He dug in his drawers and found a purple sweater, which he thought would suffice. After all, Sherlock wore his big coat.

The shop was almost empty when John came in at 10 am. Only Sherlock and an older woman were in it, and they stood conversing at the counter. The woman was short, and had blonde-gray hair. She seemed like the type of person who would care for anyone. When she turned around and smiled at John, he knew she was. "Hello dear," she said, in a sweet voice. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, and you must be John. Sherlock told me he had hired you." She extended a hand. "If you'll be staying upstairs, there's another bedroom if you and Sherlock need seperate ones."

"Of course, we'll be needing separate ones. Why wouldn't we be needing separate rooms?" John was truly baffled.

"Oh don't worry dear there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." Her voice dropped into a whisper at the words "married ones".

"Molly lives up there too," added Sherlock.

"I guess I could take a look," said John.

"Don't bother it's definitely better than your place. It's got electricity when you need it in the morning."

"What-"

"Your stubble shows that you shave by natural light." He always said these deductions of his remarkably fast.

"That's brilliant."

"Anyway I'll show you." He led John upstairs into a small living room area decorated similarly to the the shop, but rather messy. Scientific equipment and papers and books were strewn everywhere.

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed. "Sorry- erm, that's mine." He began to straighten things up.

John attempted to make small talk. "So are you and Molly-?"

"Are we-?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side like a confused dog.

John shook his head and rolled his eyes slightly. "So you don't have a girlfriend then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Alright... Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." That last part was a bit more hurried.

"No," said Sherlock. He clearly wasn't one for small talk, or, you know, emotions in general.

John just put on a poker face to mask the awkwardness of the situation and descended the stairs again. Sherlock didn't follow. Mrs. Hudson went and got him orientated with all of the machines and a few minutes after that, Molly showed up. "Good morning Mrs. Hudson. John," she said, unwrapping her scarf from her neck.

"Good morning, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. She hobbled out from behind the counter and helped Molly with her coat.

John looked at Molly. He noticed a few things he hadn't before. Her mouth was small, and her skin paler than he had thought. She was rather tall too (for a woman) and was always slightly shaking. It was also evident, as she called, "Good Morning, Sherlock!" up the stairs that she fancied a certain man in an odd coat.

John stood behind the counter, rocking back and forth on his heels. Then a customer came in, and he immediately was at attention with his best smile. "Good morning, sir. How may I help you today?"

"Why aren't you a pleasant change? Much better than nasty old Sherlock. I'll take a coffee, black. It's for Philip please."

"Coming right up."

Then down the stairs came Sherlock, who met eyes with the man who had ordered. "Anderson."

"Holmes."

John brewed the coffee and called Anderson up to take it. The other man seemed to be in a darker mood now as he swiped the coffee away from John.

John turned to Sherlock. "What was that about?"

"Anderson used to work for me, but he was much too slow and clumsy. I fired the idiot a year ago. I don't know why he insists on coming back to this shop for his coffee."

John thought it a bit peculiar too but said nothing. He merely dutifully took his place behind the register. Another customer came in. John recognized him as Greg, the man who had been with Sherlock's brother yesterday. He looked exasperate. Greg leaned on the counter and said, "One coffee, as strong as you've got."

John turned around and set to work and Lestrade let out a sigh as he went to sit down. Molly came out from behind the counter and sat down across from him. "Greg? Is everything okay?"

"It's just that Myc-" he stopped and cleared his throat, taking on a more business-like tone. "There have been four suicides recently, all took the same poison, all were found at places they had no reason to be. One just left a note. She scratched it into the floor with her nails."

"What did it say?" asked Molly.

'R-A-C-H-E."

Anderson, who was still in the shop, piped up,"It's German for revenge."

Sherlock came out from behind the counter and escorted Anderson out of the shop. "Yes, thank you for your input," he said, closing the door. Turning to Lestrade he said,"Look in her bag or suitcase, maybe even her phone. Do a little playing around with 'Rache' as it may not be the complete word. After all, she did die while writing it."

"John walked up and gave Greg his coffee. "Here you go."

"Thanks," said Greg. "And thank you, Sherlock, I'll keep in mind what you suggested."

"Always happy to provide some consultancy," said Sherlock.

_What just happened?_ thought John.

John sat in his new room at Baker Street (which Sherlock was definitely right about, as it was much nicer than his former living state). He still had to move his stuff in, but the room already felt homey. There was a full-size bed with a night table on one side of the room and dresser and chair on the other. The curtains were dark, which wasn't the worst thing. John liked the dark. It felt safe.

As he stripped down into his underwear he thought about the events that had transpired this morning. Why would Lestrade, who was obviously a trained detective, consult a man who works at a coffee shop? Then he thought about the text that Sherlock had sent from his phone the the day prior. John crawled into bed and looked at his phone. In his outgoing message box he saw what Sherlock had sent.

_**If brother has a green ladder, arrest brother.**_

_Who on earth am I working for?_


	3. A Study in Drinks

John woke up in the morning to the sound of a violin playing. Confused, he stretched and got out of bed. He took his cane and went into the living room of the upstairs apartment to find Sherlock standing in the middle, gliding a bow across the strings of the instrument. The song would normally be a beautiful tune, but it was annoying to be woken at 1 am by.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked John.

Sherlock ignored him and kept playing, which only made John angrier.

"It's 1 in the morning! People are trying to sleep!"

Still no response from Sherlock as he calmly sat in a chair by the window.

"Sherlock!" John walked up to him and plucked the bow from his hands.

"Yes, John?" If Sherlock noticed John's anger, he clearly didn't acknowledge it.

"Why are you playing the violin in the middle of the night?"

"It helps me think."

"It helps you think." What a ludicrous man this Sherlock was. John was shocked by the sheer audacity of him. "And what exactly are you thinking about at 1 in the morning?"

"A mutlitude of things actually. There's a malfunctioning machine downstairs and I don't quite know what the problem is. Judging by the taste of the coffee i'd say there was some sort of clog somewhere. Then there's the suicide that Gavin mentioned yesterday, with all that stuff about Rachel and the fact that they hadn't looked through her case. Was her case even there? Also the problem of Ander-"

"Wait- why are you thinking about that woman?"

Sherlock looked slightly dumbstruck. "I don't know what your talking about."

"You were talking about the lady who committed suicide. You said something about Rachel and her suit case."

"Did I?"

"Yes. You did. Now you're avoiding the subject." John tapped his foot impatiently. "What is going on, Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained silent for a bit, but then said, "I'm a detective, a consulting detective. The police come to me when they are to incompetent to solve a case on their own. As of late, they have been coming more often. When I give them help they drop a bit more in the tip jar. Also, a coffee shop is a great place to learn about people, to get close to them. So many people pass through these doors and sleepily get their coffee. You sit down, make light conversation, and all of a sudden you have everything you need to know."

"A consulting detective?"

"I invented the job."

"Interesting..."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it basically sounds like your a gossip." John laughed.

Sherlock did not. "John, I take my work very seriously. I can identify an airplane pilot by his left thumb. I know two-hundred-and-forty-three types of tobacco ash. I am no amateur, if that is what you're suggesting."

"No, no. Not at all," said John, still laughing. "Good night, Sherlock." With that, he walked back to his bedroom and went to sleep.

Sherlock did not play again that night, as John still had his bow.

John woke up at 6:30 feeling rather well-rested actually. Aside from Sherlock's playing, he had slept much better here at Baker Street than in his old apartment. There hadn't even been the usual night mares. He got dressed, picked up his cane, and went to go freshen up in the bathroom.

Going into the hall he saw Molly, who was removing earplugs as she walked towards the other bathroom. John made a mental note to buy dome earplugs too. He couldn't just confiscate Sherlock's bow every night.

So he went through his usual morning routine and went out into the living room. He was greeted by the smiling faces of Molly and Mrs. Hudson as well as Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his hands clasped under his chin as if he were praying. "Good morning, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes please, Mrs. Hudson." John sat down in an old chair with a blanket thrown over the top as the landlady poured him some tea.

Sherlock breathed in, then exhaled heavily.

"Sorry, but what exactly is he doing?" John asked.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Nicotine patches. They help him think. It must be the case."

John looked at Sherlock's arm. "But he's got three of them."

"It's a three patch problem," said Sherlock, not even doing so much as to move his head to address them. "Jennifer Wilson."

"What?"

"Jennifer Wilson was the lady who committed suicide. She was clever too, running that string of lovers..."

"How do you know that?"

"The only woman recently called in missing and by multiple sources, all male with no relation to her whatsoever. She was from Cardiff, in London visiting a, shall we say, friend."

"Sherlock, it's opening time," said Mrs. Hudson sweetly. "We best be heading downstairs."

Sherlock sighed and stood up. "I'd better fix that machine quick." He walked down the stairs, grabbing a seemingly random-placed screwdriver, and went to work on the clogged coffee maker.

John stood up, grabbed his cane, and hobbled downstairs too, followed by Molly, who was applying lipstick, and Mrs. Hudson, who walked to the front door and turned the sign. "If you need me I'll be at Ms. Turner's." John smiled. Mrs. Hudson was becoming his favorite.

As Sherlock was fiddling with the machine and Molly approached him. _Oh this'll be rich._ thought John. Sherlock obviously had no clue of Molly's feelings for him.

"Hi Sherlock," said Molly, smiling nervously.

He looked up from the machine temporarily. "Hello Molly." He smiled lightly.

"So I was wondering sometime if- I don't know- you'd like to get coffee?"

"Molly, we work in a coffee shop. We can get coffee whenever we want." The man returned to his work as if nothing had happened.

Soon a cab pulled up and a woman stepped out and walked into the cafe. She ordered a coffee, strong, and went to sit at a table while Molly made her drink. Sherlock looked up from the machine, which was now fixed, and seemed to take an interest in the woman. When Molly had finished the coffee, he took it over to the girl and sat down across from her. John couldn't really hear what was going on, but there was some crying on the woman's part and some "sympathy" from Sherlock. Then Sherlock comforted her one last time and went back behind the counter.

"I've confirmed what I already knew," he whispered to John. "Jennifer Wilson had a string of lovers, one of whom she was visiting. I did learn something new though. Rachel was her still-born daughter. I can't imagine why she'd use her last bit of energy to carve that into the floor with her bare hands."

John couldn't either, but didn't have time to say as a customer walked into the shop. It was a small Asian girl, who looked to be late for work. She approached the counter. "Tea please. For Soo Lin."

"Of course," said John, smiling.

He went back to make it as Greg Lestrade burst into the shop. "Sherlock! Have you thought about the case at all?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." He told Greg the whole story, everything he'd found out. "But why did she carve it into the floor?"

Greg shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"No it's not. It's better. If you have no other details to offer and do not intend on buying anything, please get out."

Greg sighed and put a bit of money in the tip jar. (John would later look and find it to be 30 quid). "I'll give Mycroft your regards."

"I'm sure you'll give him that and more."

_This is by far the weirdest job I've ever worked. Don't get me wrong, it's a fairly normal coffee shop. I also have seen shops with people living upstairs, so that's not a different concept. It's _Sherlock_ that's odd, with his coat collar and cheekbones. He claims to be some sort of detective and is pulling me in too._

_Other than that though, I enjoy it here. The electricity is nice in the morning, and the company isn't half bad. Molly and Mrs. Hudson are very pleasant people to be around. More to come on what the hell is actually going on here when I figure it out._


	4. The Cabbie

"But the question is- how did he make it look like a suicide? How did he get her to take the poison?"

"Sherlock. Please. I could use some help." 4 coffees to make, each slightly different. What was it again? One black, one milky but not too milky, one with milk and sugar, one black with sugar, but no milk, or was there milk? John couldn't remember.

"James?" John called.

A small man with black hair who was chewing gum came up and accepted the drink. "Thanks." He put a little in the tip jar and walked away.

"Right. Sorry. We're running a coffee shop." Sherlock was the most oblivious person that John knew. Molly head taken the day off, so it was just the two of them.

"It seems like I'm running it, and your standing there taking up space."

Sherlock sighed and got to work. Satisfied, John went back to his. "Let's see... Mycroft?" What the hell kind of a name was Mycroft? Oh right, that's Sherlock's brother.

It wasn't Mycroft who came up to the counter though. It was a woman. She took the coffee and payed without so much as looking up from her phone.

"Angelo?" called Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" A jolly man came up to grab his coffee. "How are you today?"

"Living."

"And loving?" He gestured at John and winked.

"No," interrupted John.

"Ah." Angelo payed and put quite a bit of money in the tip jar. "I still owe you." He smiled at Sherlock.

"Thanks, Angelo."

John wasn't even going to question their relationship, and returned to the counter. There was a long line of irritated-looking customers who wanted some caffeine. Sherlock came and helped.

Sherlock was so fast that John could barely keep up. The shop was a whirlwind. John didn't remember much, only the rush he got as he ran from machine to machine. When it was all done, he and Sherlock leaned against the counter, laughing and gasping for breath.

"That was... interesting," commented John. "Is it usually that busy here?"

Sherlock smiled, but then something snapped his attention to the front of the shop. It was a parked taxi. Just stopped. "Who is it waiting for?" Sherlock thought aloud.

Lestrade (who must of came in during the confusion) said, "Well that's our murderer."

The cab still sat there.

"How do you know?" inquired John.

"Well you see- we had to find the case first and then-"

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "What are you doing?"

It was too late though. Sherlock was already in the cab, which was driving off.

John cursed and ran outside. He flagged down a cab and told it to follow Sherlock. He could only hope that it wasn't too late.

The school room was eerily empty, and a light green hue of light covered everything. The old cabbie sat across a table from Sherlock.

"Shall we play a game?" he asked.

"It is on."

God damn it. Which building? John ran into the nearest one.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because every time I kill, a little money goes to them. You'd like my boss. He likes you. In fact, he intends to make sure you go out of business. So go ahead. Pick."

He picked the one on the left.

"Interesting," commented the cabbie.

Sherlock hesitated.

John burst into the room, in the wrong building. Looking out the window he could see the cabbie and Sherlock, talking. In Sherlock's hand was a pill.

So he did what he had to.

As a habit of paranoia (and the weird events of late), John had a gun in his pocket. He pulled it out, and fired.

There was a bang and the shattering of glass. Someone had shot the cabbie! No. Sherlock needed more information. Quickly going over to the man on the floor, he stepped on his shoulder. "Who do you work for?" he yelled.

The cabbie gave a strangled gasp.

Sherlock pressed harder. "A NAME!"

"MORIARTY!" the man yelled, and then let out a breath as Sherlock stepped off of his shoulder. He laughed, and then went unconscious.

Sherlock avoided the police, who were already at the scene. They offered him blankets and such, as you would do for one in shock. Had Sherlock actually been in shock, he might have accepted them. Instead, he found John and left without a word.

Greetings! Okay so this was literally the first fic I ever did, so I tried to go off of "real" events to start. Now that I have a bit more experience, I plan to go a bit more off of the rails with more in between case times and the like as I continue.

Thanks for sticking around.

~Hannah


End file.
